


Foresight

by themusicofmysoul



Series: The Chronicles of the Worldbuilder [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusicofmysoul/pseuds/themusicofmysoul
Summary: The gift of true foresight is a rare talent, one that usually lands its wielder in an asylum or within the colorful tent flaps of a traveling circus.  Neither path is particularly ideal, and yet we must play with the hand we are dealt.But there are entities out there who find such a talent an affront to their very existence, particularly those who toy with the strings of fate.





	Foresight

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of an "OC x Reader Challenge" I participated in awhile back. A friend requested the Dungeon Master, so I complied.

Dark clouds hung low in the afternoon sky, casting the forest into a dull, colorless palette of varying shades of gray.  The trees seemed flat and lifeless, the surrounding shrubbery lacking its usual vibrant greens and the constant rustle of activity from its smaller inhabitants.  All was still and quiet, the damp, thick scent of rains to come heavy in the air, coating every surface with the thinnest layer of moisture—a fitting backdrop to the carnage that lay at your feet.

The orc had come out of nowhere, bursting from the dense foliage with a deafening roar as he swung his gleaming broadsword toward your gut.  You moved on instinct, hardly flinching as you sidestepped the attack before drawing your dagger, slashing at the back of his knee and severing the muscles and tendons there with barely a thought.  The orc fell to his knees with a thunderous  _thud_ , the earth beneath him seeming to quake with the impact as he let out a guttural growl, the tip of his broadsword piercing the earth to keep him upright.

You had expected it when the half-elf then leapt from the overhanging branches, spear in hand and aimed for your exposed throat.  He was lithe and agile, faster than you expected, but still you managed to duck into a crouch and avoid the tip of his spear, quickly leaning back on your hand as you swept his legs out from under him.  He landed on his back with a muted _oof_ , the wind knocked out of him, but recovered too fast for you to take advantage of his vulnerability.  Before you could so much as draw the scimitar sheathed at your side, he had rolled to his feet, his spear up and ready to deflect whatever attack you may unleash upon him.

The half-elf’s orc companion continued to groan where he lay kneeling in the dew-laden grass, his blood soaking the earth beneath him as he struggled to push himself to his feet.  As long as you didn’t get too close to him, you knew he wouldn’t be an issue.  His left leg was useless and he’d likely never walk again unless he found himself a talented Healer.  But the half-elf was… a bit of a problem, more so than you had expected.  You weren’t used to fighting opponents so light on their feet, so quick to recover from an ordinarily debilitating blow.

But it was fine, you told yourself, you had already seen this play out, and you knew how it could end.

The half-elf lunged for you, swinging his spear in an arc as he tried to make you falter, to force you to drop your defense in favor of the opening he had given you—but you held fast, deflecting the blow with the flat of your scimitar as you flipped the dagger in your other hand so the tip faced downward, serrated edge out.  Pivoting your hips, you slashed at his side, the edge of your dagger slicing through the half-elf’s old, patch-work leather armor.  He let out a pained yelp, his hand immediately shooting to the gash in his side, his palm coming away wet and bloody.

“Shit—!” he ground out, biting back a grunt as he sidestepped your scimitar, the blade just missing the side of his face.

But the ground beneath his feet was soft and slick, the blood spilling from his side only adding to its instability, and he stumbled, catching himself by driving the base of his spear into the earth.  The spear was solid and well crafted, the ornately carved shaft holding his weight as he leaned heavily on it to keep himself from falling to the ground in a helpless heap.

It also left him open and vulnerable, without a weapon to defend himself.

With a loud cry, you drove the tip of your scimitar up and between his ribs, the flesh giving easily beneath the rough leather armor.  The half-elf’s eyes went wide, his gaze drifting down to where the blade had pierced his side nearly up to the hilt, his lips slightly agape in disbelief.  A wordless, anguished yell pierced the air somewhere behind you, reminding you with a jolt that you still had another opponent waiting in the wings.  

Trying not to focus on the sickening sensation of your blade sliding out of the half-elf’s body, you turned to face the still incapacitated orc, unable to suppress the shiver that shot up your spine as the half-elf fell to the ground with a wet, rasping gasp, each labored breath a frightening sucking sound, a death rattle calling oblivion to this small forest clearing.

You approached the orc, his black eyes wide and filled with terror, but still he yanked his broadsword from where it lay embedded in the earth, leaning heavily on his right knee as he held the weapon before him, pointed toward your heart.

Standing before him, the panic clear even on his inhuman features, you considered letting him live.  You considered turning on your heel and continuing on through the forest, allowing him to live and giving him the chance to help his quickly dying friend.  It would go against what you were supposed to do, disrupt the flow of fate that had led you here to this spot.

And  _he_  may not appreciate that.

“You piece of shi—” But that was all the orc managed before your dagger pierced his windpipe, unceremoniously cutting off the slew of curses he was undoubtedly about to spit at your feet.

A shame, really.  They probably didn’t deserve such a violent end.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you anymore.”

You flinched as an all too familiar voice drifted from the shadows, the rich baritone sending a delightful chill through your body.  You never understood how he could move so soundlessly when he wanted to, as if he could negate the laws of nature on a whim.  The fact that he only sometimes called upon that little parlor trick aggravated you for some reason.

“What?  Disappointed that I’m still breathing?”  Your voice was flat and cold, your gaze locked on the cooling body of the orc still at your feet.  Did he have a family?  Friends?  What about the half-elf?  Were they mercenaries?  Or maybe a pair of lifelong friends down on their luck and looking for an easy mark?  It was always easier to think of them as faceless, nameless pawns in the game, puppets without an entire life behind them.

It was hard to do that when their lifeblood still sat warm and sticky on your flesh.

“ _Frustrated_ is the word I would use,” the voice replied, closer now, somewhere behind you.  “I can’t quite find the right adversaries to present a real challenge to you.  That little gift of foresight you possess is proving to be a nuisance.”

You scoffed, glancing down at your weapons, blood dripping in a slow, steady rhythm from the blades.  You would need to clean them later, wiping them down only did so much after a while.  “Maybe you should have considered that before roping me into this little game of yours.  I could have made a nice living out of a circus as a fortune teller.”

“A waste of talent.”  He was beside you now, his cloaked form just on the edge of your vision.  “Not to mention the challenge that comes with trying to best it.  I was close this time.  You don’t quite have the speed to match someone with elven blood in their veins.”

“And yet I did.”

“And yet you did.  Fate seems to always be swayed in your favor.  A curious thing, really.”

“I’ve seen the fight before,” you said, ripping your gaze from those bloodied weapons to glance sidelong at him, his violet cloak somehow still just as vibrant beneath the dull, gray sky.  “It’s hard to fuck up when you know what’s going to happen.”

“Ah,” he interjected, the smile on his face evident as he spoke.  “But you never see the end.  You’ve let that much slip about your gift.  That means the finale has yet to be decided, that fate leaves your strings to hang loose and free for any to grab.  A challenge, to be sure, but no one likes a game easily won.”

A chill began to creep into your bones, your fingers growing numb as the blood staining them started to cool.  The underlying threat in his words was not missed on you.  He was determined to best you, defeat you, kill you, all just to prove to himself that he was still the puppeteer behind every marionette.

Even one who could see the strings.

“You could easily be rid of me, you know,” you said, your eyes drifting back toward the dead orc, his blood turning the grass a deep burgundy, the color of bitter wine.  “All it would take is a dragon or two, then all would be right again in your beloved game.”

Fingers suddenly wrapped around your chin, roughly turning your face to meet his hidden gaze.  The leather of his gloves was surprisingly soft, not at all like the rough leather armor the half-elf had worn.  And yet, despite the barrier between his flesh and yours, heat radiated from him, warming the skin along your jaw as he held firm.

“Where would be the fun in that, my dear?” he purred, his thin lips turned upward in a tight, malicious smile.  It was the most you ever saw of his features, his strong, smooth jawline, high cheekbones, pale skin, and elegant nose free from the deep, impenetrable shadows of his hood.  Only at this proximity, nearly nose to nose with the sadistic old god did you get a glimpse at what was hidden beneath those shadows, at a pair of bright, blue eyes the color of the northern, snow-capped mountains.  “There’s no fun to be had in a game so blatantly rigged in my favor.”

You couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of your mouth.  “Who would have thought the legendary Dungeon Master was so keen on a fair fight?”

“Oh, darling,” he drawled, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice.  “Who said anything about fairness?”

And with that, he released his hold on you, dipping into a deep bow that sent his gold-trimmed, violet cloak billowing out behind him like a dark, swelling storm cloud.  Before you could even fully register his words, he vanished in a swirl of black mist, leaving you alone with the cold, stiffening bodies of your attackers, the first drops of rain mixing with the slowly drying blood soaking the earth.


End file.
